


Project Super Soldier

by snowdarkred



Category: The Losers (2010)
Genre: Abduction, Angst, Gen, Human Experimentation, Hurt, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-11
Updated: 2012-02-11
Packaged: 2017-10-30 22:37:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/336958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snowdarkred/pseuds/snowdarkred
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Remember that crack about being a secret government experiment? Yeah, well that was just asking for karma to cash in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Project Super Soldier

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote and originally posted this around the time that Chris Evans was announced as Captain America. Obviously it had to be written. 
> 
> Notes from the original: Okay, so this was interesting to write. I kept going back and forth as to how detailed it should be, but I think I hit the right tone? It's a like mutant blend of Project Super Soldier, aka the thing that turned Steve Rogers into Captain America, and Extremis, aka the thing that messed Tony Stark up even more than he already was. With a dash of Weapon X, because I just want to fit in every Marvel hero I can. [[x](http://snowdarkred.livejournal.com/42664.html)]

They took him in a bar. A  _bar_. Seriously. Jensen was never going to live it down. One of the ten commandments of what they did (right after  _Never sleep with your CO's daughter_ , which Jensen broke only once, and it was not worth it) was  _Never let your guard down_. When his team found him – if they found him – they were gonna be so pissed.

Seriously. A bar. Jesus  _fuck_.

 

\---

 

Plastic ties dug into his wrists. His fingers were slick with blood. He didn't know where he was, and he didn't know how he'd gotten here. The last thing he remembered was alcohol and cigarette smoke and the smooth wood of the table beneath his hands. A pretty girl who'd grinned at him. The murmur of a TV set to ESPN. Dizzy lights and sharp smells. A hat that reminded him of Cougar's; it made him smile.

His ribs hurt. Whoever had him must have kicked him at some point. Each breath felt like glass being forced into his lungs. He blinked and realized—

He couldn't see. He couldn't  _see._  

That scared him more than the feel of a gun pressing against the base of his neck, or the rough rocking and dull roar of an engine that hummed against his legs. He was being moved. He couldn't  _see_.

He wasn't wearing a blindfold.

 

\---

 

_Jesus._

_I know._

_He's perfect._

_Should we?_

_Yeah._

_Let's get started._

 

\---

 

Pain. Pain that ripped through him, pain worse than the worst torture he'd ever endured, pain that spread from his head to his toes and lodged in his joints. Pain filled him up and spilled over and he screamed and he screamed and he screamed.

 

\---

 

_Who the fuck is Cougar?_

_Does it matter?_

_No, but—_

_Don't think about it. He's just this now._

_Fuck._

_Yeah._

 

\---

 

Pain.

Pain.

Pain pain painpainpain.

If you repeat a word enough, long enough, enough times, it eventually loses its meaning. It just becomes something that you say, a string of noises that amount to nothing. Are nothing.

Cougar. Clay. Pooch. Aisha. Cougar. Clay. Pooch. Aisha. Cougar. Clay. Pooch. Aisha. Cougar. Clay. Pooch. Aisha. Roque—no. Cougar. Clay. Pooch. Aisha. Cougar.

Pain. The words were meaningless.

 

\---

 

_Do you think—?_

_They're not paying us to think. They're paying us for results._

\---

 

They cut him open, tore him inside out, and sewed him back together again. They took his mind apart and rearranged the pieces. He couldn't see their faces, and begging did nothing. They didn't acknowledge him, though he heard his own shouts and yells and pleas bounce back at him, like coins rattling in an empty can. The air was cool against his fevered flesh, and he wasn't wearing any clothes.

He almost got loose once. They'd unstrapped him and stuck something in his arm, and he bolted up right. His stomach rolled and he barely got two steps before his legs gave out. He trembled as they picked him back up, as they spun him around and placed him back on the— Table? Cot? The hard, flat surface they kept him on.

They strapped him back down, and they made the pain come back and back and back, until he wished that he could be out of his mind just so that he wouldn't be in his body.

 

\---

 

_Damn, that was close._

_I've never seen a subject do that before._

_I told you he was perfect._

_What about the optical—?_

_Don't worry about that; those can be dealt with later. He's too dangerous to have sight._

_So, test number 56.14.5.11, Subject 42. Begin._

 

\---

 

It can take less than seventy-two hours to break down the human psyche. He didn't know how much time had passed. He had no frame of reference, and the pain wouldn't let him count.

 

\---

 

A buzz started filling his head. It was just loud enough that he could tell that it was trying to tell him something, but it was vague enough that he could make out what it was. It was like trying to understand the individual conversations in a crowd: nearly impossible, and most you'll get out of it is a headache.

His head already ached; the buzzing only made it worse.

 

\---

 

_These results are fantastic._

_I know._

_Do you think he'll survive? No one else has._

_I think that he's going to going to break every record we have._

_What about—?_

_Stop asking about it. It's not going to change anything._

 

\---

 

The buzz got louder. He could hardly hear anything over it. He was slowly sliding into insanity. Each second felt like an eternity. For all he knew, they  _were_ eternities. A thousand eternities, separated by endless rounds of pain that shot up and down his spine.

Fuck. Cougar. Clay. Pooch. Aisha. Cougar. Clay. Pooch. Aisha. Cougar. Cougar. Cougar. Cougar. Cougar. Cougar. Cougar. Cougar.  _Cougar. Cougar. Cougar._

 

\---

 

There were tubes in his skin, down his throat, in certain uncomfortable places that should go unmentioned. The buzz turned into a roar, so loud he couldn't think, couldn't breathe, couldn't do anything but ride with it, feel it swelling in his mind. He felt like he was coming apart, from the inside out, but that didn't make any sense, because they'd already taken him apart and separated the pieces.

_All the king's horses, and all the king's men, couldn't put Humpty together again._

 

\---

 

Everything snapped into place.

And it was  _beautiful_.

 

\---

 

_Holy shit. It, he, that's. Holy shit._

_Are you getting this?_

_Holy shit. Fuck. Is that—is that even possible?_

_He's in the systems! He's in the fucking security system! How—_

_Somebody call Max and tell him—_

_Fuck! Fuckfuckfu—_

 

\---

 

Code. Perfect, endless, streaming code. He could  _see_  it, all around him. It was glorious, and it chased the pain away. It banished the fire, and all that was left were numbers.

 

\---

 

They came for him. Of course they came for them. He watched them blow through the building  _(research facility, torture chamber)_  with guns blazing. They killed and killed and killed, and he reveled in it, soaked it in vicariously.

He didn't know who they were, but he knew their faces. He knew the warmth that squeezed his chest as he tracked their progress through the compound. But he couldn't.

Couldn't...

 

                             ...quite...

 

                                                          ...remember...

         
                ...who...

 

...they...   
  
                                  
  
                                                                                                                  ...were.

 

But he knew what they meant, and that was good enough for him.

 

\---

 

They were  _here_. In the room with him. He couldn't see them – there were no security cameras in the room they were holding him – but he could feel the air move around them, smell them, hear them.

Gun oil, hot metal, and sweat. Leather and cigarettes and fury, coiling through the air. The roar  _(voices, numbers)_  had receded, but it nearly blocked out their voices anyway. If he concentrated hard, he could hear them through the rise and fall  _(like a heartbeat)_  inside his head.

 

\---

 

_Holy shit._

_What the hell did they do to him?_

_Jensen? Can you hear me?_

_Jensen? ¿Puede usted aquí conmigo?_

_Get that shit off of him. Get him out of there._

_Fuck. Fucking fuckers, gonna kill 'em all. Shit._

 

\---

 

 _Don't bother_ , he croaked. The words stuck in his throat, the letters jumbling together. His throat was raw, and he could feel his vocal cords grind when he spoke.  _Get me out of here. I wanna...I wanna blow this place the fuck up._  

A warm hand wrapped gentle around his, and a soft breath brushed against his cheek.  _(He tried not to flinch.)_  A voice, male, accented, familiar, said,  _Como desee. Lo que quieras, Jensen._

And something inside him relaxed.


End file.
